


Leaning Against the Sun

by mrasaki



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Introspection, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-22
Updated: 2009-05-22
Packaged: 2017-10-07 06:00:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrasaki/pseuds/mrasaki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They drink for a while, watching the small fishing boats churn across the bay and the sun stripe yellow against the climbing vines and whitewashed brick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leaning Against the Sun

Completed 05/22/09

*title borrowed from the poem “I taste a liquor never brewed” by Emily Dickinson

***

Once, in a contemplative moment aboard the _Strahl_, Balthier told Basch that in the years of being a judge and sky pirate, he’d found that every city has a distinctive aroma. One gets used to the changing smells, he said. In a way, he finds them almost comforting; one whiff off the airship and you know instantly down to your very marrow that this is a foreign place.

Rabanastre smells of dry sands and spice in the dry season, of damp and verdure in the rainy. Bhujerba is saturated with the pungent, cinnamony scent of madhu and the acrid tang of skystone, and Archades, depending on where you are, smells either of sewers and desperation or of perfumed wood. Balfonheim smells eyewateringly of the ocean, of dank and fish and rotting seaweed.

He never stays long in Balfonheim, he said, leaning aganst the railing and staring down through the transparent deck at the mottled terrain streaming by. The stench in the air and then in his clothes usually puts him off his appetite and makes Fran physically ill for at least a week, by the end of which he and Fran will have departed for other ports anyway. A pity, really; Balfonheim has a stunning array of exotic foods imported from all over Ivalice, and very little are they able to enjoy them.

Basch never really notices the smells. But then he’s never been much of a traveller even during the war, and in the midst of escaping and contant battling and matters of international import to worry over, he hardly has time to notice. Either, he supposes, he is desensitized by years of torture or Balthier is more sensitive than most. Considering the smells don’t seem to bother anyone else except Fran, he rather thinks the explanation lies in the latter.

But now they’ve come to the city of Balfonheim and the party is scattered, each to their own aims. Basch, idle with a dissatisfaction that he cannot explain, winds his way through the busy docks and finds Balthier lounging casually on the sun deck of the upper level of the White Cap Pub, picking delicately at a dish of Rabanastran cactus fruits. Balthier’s sandals have been kicked off, and the cuffs of his trousers have been loosened and rolled up. Fran is nowhere to be seen.

 “Have you not any higher priorities than eating when we should be leaving for Giruvegan with all haste?” Basch asks from the door. His tone would have been considerably harsher had this been any earlier in their journey, born in part of long disuse and in part the sheer frustration of delayed action after years in chains. But the glittering blue ocean and balmy sunshine soothes frayed nerves, and the question is lazily spoken. A small part of him notes, with something like pain and something like pleasure, the whiteness of Balthier’s high collar and the strip of bronzed neck exposed, and he carefully pays no attention to the faint sheen of sweat on the smooth skin, and the dampness it gives to the short hairs at the base of the head.

“Ah, company,” Balthier says mildly, squinting up against the afternoon sun, and waves at a cushioned seat for Basch to sit down. “There’s little use in starving while Vaan roams the market, you know. In fact, don’t you think he would finish sooner if he had someone accompanying him?” He gives him a placid smile. “After all, the boy hardly knows the merits of either armor or weapon and could benefit from the company of such an _experienced_ soldier as yourself.” He slowly forks a slice of cactus fruit and brings it to his mouth. Basch tries to decide if Balthier is being sarcastic.

“Refreshment?”

Basch takes a less luxuriantly cushioned chair from an adjoining table, and sits down. “I… no. My thanks.”

“To the fruit or aiding Vaan?”

“As Vaan is under Penelo and Ashe’s strictest care, it would have to be the fruit then, wouldn’t it?”

Balthier smiles that fleeting cynical smile. “Touché. And, of course, my next question as to the location of the princess is also answered. How efficient of you.”

Basch raises an eyebrow at him. “I try,” he replies dryly. He nods towards the dish. “I had thought your sensitivity to the unique smells of Balfonheim makes you ill?”

“Funny that,” Balthier picks up a fluted goblet and waves it under his nose. “I rarely come here afoot, and it seems I’ve grown accustomed to the smell before I’d realized it.” He sips the contents slowly, then notices Basch’s gaze and tilts the goblet towards him. “Would you care for some Bhujerban madhu?”

“No,” Basch replies. He picks out a small cactus fruit instead, rolling the fruit between his palms until the skin splits, then begins peeling it carefully.

“You aren’t a man of many vices,” Balthier observes seriously, watching Basch drop the skin onto the plate.

“And you are a man of entirely too many.”

“That’s a bit unjust, don’t you think? Enjoying the simple pleasures of food and drink is hardly a sin.” Lightly, but with just the slightest hint of defensiveness, then Balthier catches the ironic tone and looks up to find Basch smiling at him. It isn’t much of a smile, Basch knows; it has been sadly out of use for a very long time and it hangs awkwardly on his face.

But something in the sky pirate’s demeanor lifts in response, a lessening of the hard tension in his eyes and around his lips, and Basch realizes that he has entirely mistaken Balthier’s insouciance, the determinedly indifferent attitude. Only when it is gone and replaced with a half-smile, light eyelashes brushing tanned cheeks, do recent revelations occur to him and he understands it is only a façade, an economy of emotion born of years of hard experience and betrayal.

“You wouldn’t say that if you’ve ever had madhu,” Balthier says after an interval, and his voice is easy now, this time truly so. “Come now, have you ever tried madhu?” He shakes the goblet lightly at Basch. “Complements fruit in the most delightful way.”

Basch curses as juice drips down his chin. “You remind me of a cat,” he teases, dabbing at himself with a napkin. “You enjoy your material comforts to an excessive degree. Especially now, when our mission is most pressing.”

“That may be,” Balthier presses, “but come now, have you ever _tried_ it?”

Actually, Basch hasn’t. He is of a good family that had been rich only in name, and being a soldier in the midst of war had precluded imported luxuries like Bhujerban liquor.

“So if you’ve never tried it—“ Balthier is waving the goblet under h­­­is nose again, his eyes slitting in pleasure like he’s scenting a lush bouquet of flowers. His teeth show briefly, an arch challenge.

“Yes, yes, fine,” Basch sighs.­­ “Let’s have it.” Balthier smiles in triumph and rings a little bell on the glass table. A young bangaa appears, then disappears just as quickly with a low murmur and the clink of coins.

“I— apologize,” Basch says abruptly, after a pause and some thought.

“For?”

“It was presumptuous of me. To imply that you overindulge. It is not my place to judge, and even if it was, you certainly have ample reason to.” Silence meets this, and Basch glances up, chagrined, to see Balthier studying him. “You refer to my father.” It is not a question.

“Well. It seems there is much you have neglected to tell us.”

Sharply, “Perhaps that depends on what you are entitled to know.”

They pause as the waiter returns bearing another chilled goblet and another bottle, and pours the madhu. When he is gone, Basch leans forward. “I do not mean to offend, I just—“

“No offense taken.” Balthier’s careless demeanor has returned, but a spark of anger flares in his green eyes. He lifts his goblet to Basch. “Shall we?”

“No—Balthier—“ Basch chastises himself for being so incapable of not giving offense with every sentence. Why is his mouth so full of crude words? Balthier always did make him feel ever more an unrefined soldier.

At the fleeting look of irritated impatience crossing Balthier’s face, he says the first thing that comes to mind: “Teach me.” Now Balthier looks surprised, and it occurs to Basch that this is probably the first time he’s ever seen him truly look so, even when Venat had made itself apparent.

“Teach you what?”

“Teach me…this. How to appreciate fine madhu.” How to relax. How to enjoy simple pleasures, because he no longer remembers. The how of it is lost somewhere down in the dark dungeons beneath Nalbina Fortress, and the years he left there.

Balthier touches his tongue to his lip, a pensive motion. “You know, my own pathetic story about dastardly fathers and othersuch pales in comparison to the sordid tales of woe our traveling companions could tell. And yours.”

“Nay. We have all suffered equally.”

“How kind of you to say so.” Spoken with his usual sarcastic tone, but Basch is reassured to see Balthier tip his head back, lips curving and teeth gleaming in the sun.

Basch tries his rusty smile again, and then reminds him, “Well? Care to impart the esoteric knowledge gained during a privileged Archadian childhood to a poor bumpkin knight?” hoping he’s hit just the right note of flippancy, reluctant to be bumped right back to the beginning of the conversation again. Catching Balthier at just the right moment in an expansive mood and _keeping_ him there is a trick that no one but Fran seems to have mastered.

But Balthier gapes incredulously for just a second before recovering and sitting back with a curt laugh. “My dear Basch, did I just witness a _joke_?”

Basch rolls his eyes, quelling the swell of pleasure that arises in his breast that he, _he_ is the cause of the sky pirate’s laughter, and picks up his own goblet and looks at the golden liquid inside. “Well?” he prods. Something about taste, color, and smell, that much he knows. And swirling and rolling about on the tongue.

“You think too much,” Balthier tells him. “Just _drink_ it. Worry about its complications later.”

Basch does. It is thick and sweet, almost cloyingly so, but then it fades to a cool tang, honey and mint, with the faintest burn of alcohol. His head swims with the fumes and he takes a few deep breaths, and Balthier warns a trifle belatedly, “Careful, ‘tis deceptively strong.” He looks bemused. Basch smiles.

They drink for a while, watching the small fishing boats churning across the bay and the sun striping yellow against the climbing vines and whitewashed brick. Balthier instructs him, lazily, how to scent the liquor, to dip his nose into the wide brim of the goblet and inhale, and how to roll it, to taste it on the back of his tongue. Basch scoffs at most of it. Notes of starberry and sandalwood, indeed.

He is relaxing, the strong liquor spreading a warm languor through his limbs and curling under his stomach. Balthier has also sunk back into his padded seat, his eyes half-lidded, one foot propped up on the opposite chair. He’s taken off most of his rings and has loosened his collar, but even that uncharacteristic casualness doesn’t belie the effortless elegance that Basch often envies, born not just of a spare frame and tanned skin and sun-lightened tawny hair, but of a regal bearing that betrays his aristocratic and military upbringing.

Archadian elite. It’s so obvious in hindsight.

Balthier turns his face away from the view and notices Basch’s gaze. But he doesn’t question, only raising his goblet in reply. “A toast to insane fathers,” he offers, and perhaps he is more affected by the drink than Basch had thought, for what attempts to be sardonic wavers into tired bitterness.

“No,” Basch replies slowly, gazing back at him soberly. “A toast to you, who despite your sire, are a good and honorable man.” And it is suddenly very important to him that Balthier believe him. Although Basch is Kingslayer across the civilized world, Balthier had been the first to admit the possibility of doubt and redemption. Basch will not have his compatriot doubting himself for his actions and the actions of a deranged parent beyond his control.

Balthier laughs, a harsh, cynical snort, and looks back over the water. Basch cannot bear such a dissonant sound. He suddenly jerks forward, accidentally knocking his goblet to the ground with his elbow. The metallic clatter is loud over the hushed commotion of the dockyard and the waves and Balthier looks up, startled to find Basch only inches away. “What—“ he begins, and then Basch pushes him back into the cushions and kisses him.

Basch feels the spasmodic twitch of Balthier’s fingers against his jerkin, and that’s the only sign of shock before the fingers unclench and a hand slides up Basch’s chest to rest lightly on his cheek, and a soundless sigh breathes against his mouth. He gives a brief worry to the coarseness of his cheek and perhaps a longer thought to his breath; he had not come in anticipation of this kind of tête-á-tête, after all.

Balthier doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss, only angling his head to deepen the kiss, and Basch is only faintly aware of the cool sweetness of madhu on Balthier’s tongue and the silkiness of Balthier’s cropped hair as he combs his fingers through it, over the heat of the sun and the lightheaded exhilaration of the leisurely slide of their lips and tongues.

They slowly draw apart, Balthier looking wary but also, for the first time Basch has known him, a little unsure. But Balthier recovers quickly. “Hardly,” he notes calmly, but with just a bit of tension and question underlying the tone, “a toast worthy of the name.” He quirks an eyebrow challengingly, and Basch knows that if he chooses to, Basch can seize this moment to laugh it all off as a passing fancy. Or, he can push a little further, and the chances are good that the afternoon will end with them tumbling into one of the soft beds available at the White Cap Pub.

But to do so would mean a confirmation of the wariness ever lurking under Balthier’s nonchalance, confirming that the world and fate undervalues Fframran mied Bunansa and thinks him a pretty plaything to trifle with. Basch knows Balthier is not one to allow others easily into his heart, and that afterwards, their fledgling friendship will inexorably chill despite outward appearances. And Basch is an honorable man, and tumbling betwixt the bedsheets so soon after the first kiss is not a worthy thing to do.

So he picks up a long-fingered hand, callused on the trigger finger and the flesh between the thumb and index, and cradles it as he tries to think of the correct thing to say. He is the soldier to his brother’s diplomat; smooth, placating words do not rise to his lips so easily as blunt truths. And all he can think of otherwise are silly, tired clichés.

“Basch,” Balthier looks caught between a half-laugh and some alarm. “I’m hardly some lass you’re wooing whose honor needs soothing.” His fingers curl a little in Basch’s grasp but he doesn’t remove his hand.

“If you were, ‘twould certainly make my task easier,” Basch replies without thinking. He grins sheepishly.

“Then it seems ‘tis your good fortune that I am not,” Balthier murmurs, and twisting his hand, grips Basch’s wrist and uses it to pull him forward. This kiss is less chaste than the previous, and Balthier reproaches Basch’s cautious chivalry with a clash of teeth and a slick, insistent tongue invading his mouth and teasing his own. Basch can hardly remember to breathe over the sensations of _wet_ and _hard_ and _soft_, and he jerks as sharp teeth rake along his lip, hot breath exhaling along his cheek and down his neck. All honorable intentions flown away, he involuntarily pushes his hands up Balthier’s arms under the loose linen, feeling the pliable skin only lightly furred with hair, and suddenly the sun is too hot, too bright, and he knows that he will forever associate the heady smells of the ocean and the white glare of the sun with a certain tanned sky pirate and pleasure.

They are interrupted by Fran.

She comes out onto the patio and pauses as Basch jerks away from Balthier. Her incurious gaze takes in the furious red flush that has immediately overtaken Basch’s face, that deepens as she immediately shifts her eyes to Balthier, who has calmly picked up the fallen goblet and is dropping a napkin neatly over the spilled liquid. Dispassionately, though her ears twitch constantly, she informs them that Vaan has heard of a rare mark in the Cerobi Steppe and wishes for Balthier’s company and advice in hunting it.

So?” Balthier asks, irritated. “He’s not my apprentice.” But he makes as if to stand anyway, reaching for his sandals, and Basch pushes away a sinking disappointment even as his wits and previous resolution return to him. Balthier doesn’t wish his long-time companion to know, does he? He wills away the sour taste in his mouth. The nature of the relationship between the sky pirate and the viera is a topic always studiously avoided by the party, and he and Balthier did little enough, after all. No promise given, no commitment. But oh, Balthier stands so close to him, almost close enough to touch, and his skin prickles at the proximity.

“Well, aren’t you coming?” Balthier is pulling his rings on and looks as if he honestly wants to know.

“There is little reason for me to accompany you, it seems,” he replies reluctantly, trying to keep the resentment out of his voice. His feeling so is petty, and unworthy of him. But he cannot bear the heat of the steppes, the drudgery of tracking the creature, and the children’s youthful exuberance after the languor, the promise, the disappointment of the afternoon.

Balthier hesitates, his fingers stilling on his cuffs. Then he seems to read Basch’s thoughts, for after he gathers his gun and fastens the gunbelt about his hips, he pauses beside Basch’s chair and stops Basch’s thoughts by pressing on his lips with thoughtful fingers sweetly scented with fruit. He leans down. Just the barest brush of lips, the tickle of a moist breath, and Basch turns his face up into it all unthinking, heedless of who may be watching, and Balthier drags his lips to the corner of Basch’s mouth, then licks a wet stripe up to his ear. He nips it briefly and makes him shiver despite the heat.

Balthier whispers softly, his voice dark with promise, “_Impatient_ bumpkin knight.” And then he is gone.

The viera meets Basch’s stunned silence with a long, assessing look, and follows.

 

 

 

 


End file.
